Places to Stay the Night

by Ann Hood

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  Places to Stay the Night

  A Novel

  Ann Hood

  For Gail

  and

  For Gina and June

  Contents

  Summer

  Autumn

  Winter

  Spring

  Summer

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Summer

  WHEN LIBBY HOLLIDAY finally left her family, she went to Los Angeles, to Hollywood. She did not go to become a movie star. She was thirty-six years old and her days of becoming a starlet, an ingénue, someone like Sandra Dee in those Tammy movies, were long gone. She went because she thought it was her last chance. Because she thought that if she spent one more day in Holly, Massachusetts, one more day looking at a husband she did not love and two teenage children who frightened her the way strangers in dark shopping mall parking lots frightened her, one more day in that house, that room, that bed, she would certainly shrivel up and die.

  Libby woke up that morning and knew it was time to leave. It was a beautiful summer day, early June, the kind of morning when it seems things are about to happen. Warm air that still holds the faintest touch of spring. A pale blue sky with puffs of clouds way up high. It was a day that children draw when they’re very young, using brightly colored Crayolas, the sun a yellow triangle in one corner, its rays shooting out at a small house with oversize flowers growing beside it and fat lines of thick green grass.

  Every Saturday, her husband, Tom Harper, got out of bed early to get to his garage in town. On the Saturday Libby left, the clock radio went off as usual. But instead of leaping out of bed, Tom rolled into her, pressed himself against her, his erection poking at her. He smelled like sleep, sour and musty as a cellar.

  “Why did you change the station?” Libby said. Her voice sounded too loud in the still morning air. “You know I like it on Lite-105.”

  Tom didn’t answer. He pretended he didn’t hear and nuzzled her neck, his face like a piece of sandpaper against her skin.

  “You know I hate talk radio,” Libby said. “I hate the way those people who call in are so needy. And how they tell their problems to just anybody who will listen.”

  Tom reached down and yanked on her nightgown. It would wrinkle, Libby thought. He was always too rough, too eager. The voice on the radio was shouting now, about those missiles that were costing a fortune and didn’t work. She had seen a piece on 60 Minutes about that and she’d written a letter to George Bush, complaining. Libby always wrote letters when something displeased her—a bad meal in a restaurant, pantyhose that ran too easily, weathermen who never predicted the weather accurately.

  And she always heard back too. Sometimes a company sent coupons or gift certificates, though that was not why she did it. George Bush wrote her a very nice reply that she kept with her important papers, birth certificates and marriage license and bank books.

  Tom was spreading her legs now, breathing hard.

  Libby turned her head, away from him, so that her gaze settled out the window and onto that beautiful summer morning—the sky, the distant clouds. By habit she lifted her legs and wrapped them around her husband’s back, placed her hands lightly on his shoulder blades, and thought about the things she couldn’t see out her window. She thought about sprawling cities glittering in sunlight, deserts burning hot, snow-capped mountains and long endless stretches of highways.

  Libby knew that other women, like her best friend Sue, imagined famous men during sex. They pretended it was Richard Gere or Kevin Costner pushing into them and maybe that fantasy would actually excite them. But not Libby. It was true that as a teenager, she had cut Tom’s face from all the wallet-size prom pictures that came in the special photo package and replaced them with Robert Redford’s face, cut from magazines. It wasn’t his face exactly. It was Robert Redford as the Sundance Kid, in that movie. Back then, Libby had been thrilled by the idea of danger, of a handsome outlaw carrying her out of Massachusetts into the Wild West. Or even farther away, to Bolivia where they would rob banks and make love.

  Somewhere she still had a dozen pictures of herself in a white prom gown sprinkled with daisies and Robert Redford’s face glued to Tom’s tuxedoed body. But that fantasy had faded over the years. Instead, it was something even more distant that excited Libby now. It was whatever lay outside this bedroom window. As Tom’s movements grew stronger, faster, Libby stared out at that perfect blue sky, imagined herself tossed into it, gaining momentum, hurtling forward, westward, not knowing where she would land. And as it sometimes happened, the thought thrilled her and despite herself she came, clutching at Tom, looking away.

  He crumpled into a heavy heap on top of her.

  “Good morning,” he whispered sweetly in her ear, his breath warm and yeasty.

  She still looked away, waiting for her heartbeat to return to normal.

  Tom pulled away from her and kissed her lightly on the lips before he bounded from the bed. Libby heard his footsteps, heavy on the floor as he walked out of the room to the bathroom. She used to think he moved with great grace. She imagined him in school, running across football fields and baseball diamonds, light and surefooted, always securing a victory.

  The sound of the shower blasting on filled her ears, but still Libby’s heart raced. A cloud floated by, wispy as angel hair. The shower stopped and Tom came back in, bringing steam and the smell of Old Spice. She listened to him as he opened drawers and slammed them shut, all the too familiar sounds of Saturday mornings. He sat on the bed to pull on his socks, and the bed dipped and creaked.

  “I know you’re awake,” he told her. He slapped her thigh playfully. He got up and came to stand over her. “Libby?” he said.

  She kept her eyes half closed so as not to block out her view of the sky completely. Tom sighed and kissed her cheek, his breath fresh now, full of mint toothpaste.

  “Love you,” he whispered. He stared down at her a moment before he left, closing the door softly behind him.

  When she knew for sure he was gone, when she heard his footsteps fading on the stairway and distant kitchen noises—tea kettle, toaster, the hum of the downstairs radio—Libby opened her eyes wide. She did not try to calm her heart. Instead she pressed her hand to her chest and felt it beating quickly beneath her fingers.

  The front door slammed shut and Libby got up from the bed and went to the window. It was funny how lying down it was impossible to see what was out there. But standing in front of it everything became clear. She could see the yellow of a forklift through the bright green leaves. Libby watched as Tom got into his red pickup truck. From where she stood, he seemed very small.

  There was a time when Tom Harper had seemed bigger than life, not only to Libby but to the whole town. He had been a hero of sorts, six foot four and built solid as stone. All the girls in Holly had wanted him, and sometimes Libby thought that was the only reason she went out with him. She was the one who got everything. She was pretty, with blond hair and blue eyes. She was smart. It was only natural that she win Tom Harper too, that they got voted Class Cuties and Class Couple, that they got crowned Prom King and Queen, that they got married and lived happily ever after.

  Libby gripped the windowsill, felt the paint flake in her hands as she watched Tom go. She stood like that until even the smoke from his exhaust pipe had disappeared and there was no sign of him at all. Then she turned from the window, and with her heart still pounding hard, she started to pack her things.

 
Dana felt as if she had been expecting her mother to leave forever. She knew that someday she would come home from school and find the house empty, or wake up one morning and discover that while she’d slept, Libby had packed up and gone. So she wasn’t surprised when the day finally came. She just followed her mother outside and watched the baby-blue VW Rabbit disappear down the road, past the cornfields, until it was completely out of sight. It reminded Dana of that movie Field of Dreams, the way the ghosts walked into the cornfields and vanished. Except that was a movie and this was real life. Her life.

  Standing there in the early summer heat, watching her mother go, Dana made herself think about other things, things that didn’t matter. How in geometry you can make things that don’t make sense seem true. Like: God loves boys. Boys love sex. Therefore God loves sex. She just kept thinking about stupid things until she felt numb, as if there was a big dead spot where her heart was supposed to be.

  She woke up that morning to the sounds of her mother packing her bags and the radio tuned to Lite-105, playing old songs real loud.

  “What’s going on?” Dana had asked, standing in the bedroom doorway peering in. She’d asked that even though she knew exactly what was happening.

  Libby was dressed in white pants and a blue and white polka dot sheer blouse. Everything matched—earrings, sandals, belt. Like all of her outfits, she’d planned this one out, every detail, right down to the seashell pink lipstick and coordinated blush. She was dressed as if she was going somewhere. She was singing along with Kenny Rogers on the radio, and she didn’t turn toward Dana when Dana spoke to her. Instead, she just kept singing and neatly placing folded clothes into her matching set of lavender American Tourister luggage.

  Dana swallowed hard. “You’re leaving us,” she said, trying to keep her voice from cracking. Instead, it came out flat, a monotone.

  “You could look at it that way,” Libby said. “Or, you could look at it like I’m going to find myself.”

  Dana nodded.

  Once, her mother had told her that determination was everything. That if you set your mind to something, you should just do it. No looking back. She watched as her mother zipped up the smallest bag. She seemed very determined. No looking back.

  “Well,” Dana said, her voice still flat and steady, even though something else was rising up in her stomach, something wild and hysterical. “Where is it you’re going?”

  “Los Angeles,” Libby said. “Hollywood.” Then she looked up at Dana, for the first time.

  Dana saw the carefully applied blue eyeliner around her mother’s eyes, and the blue Ultra-Thick mascara on her lashes. Libby’s eyes were so blue—clear and shiny. To Dana, the effect was as if someone had dipped her mother in Easter egg dye.

  “Please don’t look so sad,” Libby said. She flashed Dana her perfect white teeth. “Come on,” she said, reaching out to her. “Give me a hand here.”

  Every morning, Libby flossed her teeth, then brushed them, then polished them with Pearl Drops Tooth Polish and rinsed her mouth with Lister-Mint. Dana was sure her mother had the cleanest teeth in all of Massachusetts. In all of the United States even.

  Libby patted the big suitcase on the bed. The suitcase had made the quilt underneath bunch up and Dana had the urge to straighten it out.

  “You sit,” Libby said. “I’ll zip.”

  Dana walked into the bedroom. Her mother’s perfume always choked her and the smell caught in her throat now. It was Beautiful, by Estee Lauder. They should call it Gross, Troy always whispered to Dana when their mother walked by them, leaving a heavy trail of perfume behind her.

  Libby patted the suitcase again, and Dana climbed on top of it. Behind her mother, she saw all the bureau drawers, opened and emptied except for the heart-shaped sachets she ordered from the Victoria’s Secret catalogue. The closet was open too. Hangers covered in peach satin and stitched with bows and fake pearls hung empty from the rods.

  For an instant, Libby seemed to hesitate. She looked first around the room, then at Dana. Dana thought her mother was going to reach out to her. But then the moment passed.

  Libby sighed. “Well,” she said, “I’ve got a long drive. I don’t want to lose any daylight, do I?”

  Dana tried to catch her breath but she got a mouthful of Beautiful instead. It caught in her throat, and brought tears to her eyes.

  No one was home that morning except Dana. Her father had gone to work early, as he did every Saturday. He said more cars broke down and more things went wrong on Saturday than any other day of the week. Things were sure going wrong this Saturday, Dana thought as she stared down the empty road. She felt sweat trickling down her neck, making her T-shirt stick to her back, but she still didn’t go inside right away. It was as if she was afraid of the house now that her mother had left.

  A car started to move up the road, toward Dana. She tried not to even think that it could be Libby, changing her mind, coming home before she even got as far as the next county.

  “If this is her, I’ll be real nice to her from now on,” Dana whispered. She supposed she was bargaining with God, even though she had decided long ago that she was an atheist. “I’ll do my hair the way she wants. I won’t wear my jeans anymore. I’ll take the SATs.” Dana thought of the advice her mother always gave her, then added, aping her, “I’ll make something of myself.”

  She watched the car turn the corner, realized it wasn’t her mother’s Rabbit at all. It was Caitlin’s Pontiac Sunbird. Dana could see the crumpled front fender and dented driver’s door from here. She took a big breath, and remembered why she had become an atheist in the first place. It seemed to her God never came through on his end of the deal.

  “Hey,” Caitlin said as she got out of the car.

  The dented door didn’t open, so Caitlin climbed over the bucket seats and out the passenger’s side. Dana and Caitlin had been best friends since they were born, one month apart. Their mothers were best friends. Before Caitlin’s father died, their fathers had been best friends. They were linked. When they were six, they had poked their fingers with a safety pin and rubbed their blood together.

  “I’m on my way to your father’s garage,” Caitlin said. “See if he can fix the door.”

  That feeling started rising up again in Dana’s stomach. She touched her friend’s arm.

  “What?” Caitlin said.

  “She did it,” Dana said. Her voice wasn’t flat now. It was thick, ready to explode. Beautiful burned in her throat, and she gagged a little.

  Caitlin’s small green eyes darted toward the house, then back to Dana. “Who?” she said. “Your mom?”

  Dana knew if she opened her mouth, she would start to cry, so she nodded instead.

  “What did she do?”

  Dana gulped. “Left,” she said finally. “She left us.”

  Harper’s Garage was always full on Saturday mornings. This morning Tom had just finished unlocking everything, yanking open the big garage door and checking his notebook of repairs for the day, when Jake Fontainbleu pulled up in his new four-door Mitsubishi Montero.

  “Hey,” Tom said, “how was the trip?”

  Jake was Tom’s age but seemed older. He had thinning hair and a big soft belly that drooped over the top of his jeans.

  “The car ran like a dream,” Jake said.

  The two men stepped back to admire the Mitsubishi. They both appreciated anything that ran smoothly, the hum of a finely tuned engine, gears that shifted without incident.

  “Of course,” Jake said, “the kids drove me fucking nuts. Fought about everything. Who was going to sit where and for how long. I mean, how many times can you sing ‘Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer,’ right?”

  Tom laughed.

  “Brought you something,” Jake said. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a map, the creases still crisp.

  Tom had been collecting maps for as long as he could remember. Something about them, the way the lines connected places to each other, the way you could put your fin
ger on one place and trace a route to somewhere else, fascinated him. When he was a kid, every gas station used to sell road maps, and he’d buy them and study them, seeing how Washington, D.C., nestled into Maryland and Virginia, or following the New Jersey Turnpike, or the old Route 66, cross-country.

  Tom Harper knew how to get places. People stopped in the garage to ask him for directions before they left on trips. And when those same people came home, they brought him new maps. He had maps of Indian ruins in New Mexico, subway maps from New York City and Barcelona and Tokyo, topographic maps of the Rockies. But his favorites were still road maps.

  “This here,” Jake told him as he unfolded the map, “is Yellowstone.” He pointed to various spots. “Grizzlies here. Old Faithful. A campground.”

  But Tom was not listening. His eyes were taking it in, the thin red lines and alternate blue ones, the map’s own symbols speaking to him like a new language.

  Tom Harper had opened the garage when he was only nineteen years old, and it had never let him down. In high school, he had been a hero. He had won basketball and baseball games and championships for the Holly Huskies every year. He had raised money so the town could have Christmas lights and a monument for Vietnam vets. Everyone knew Tom Harper, and everyone stopped by his garage on Saturday morning. They called him Harp. They always had, and as a high school star the papers had loved to use the alliteration with great admiration, HOLLY HUSKIES’ HARP HIGHLIGHTS HERE!!!! HARP HAS HUSKIES HOPPIN’!!!!

  His sister, Mandy, sold coffee and doughnuts at the garage on Saturdays, and Tom talked to everybody who came in. There wasn’t anybody who disliked him. Even the ones who talked about Libby behind his back, who laughed at her crazy schemes or whispered that she was locking herself in her room, acting crazy, still held no grudges against him. They felt sorry for him.

  He didn’t even care. He had fallen in love with Libby back in ninth grade when she sat next to him in Mrs. Heinz’s English class. Tom was a terrible student, and he was bored by everything except sports, cars, and sneaking glimpses of Libby Holliday. He still remembered everything they read that year: The Red Badge of Courage and Julius Caesar and poems by Emily Dickinson and Edgar Allan Poe. He tried to say something in class every day, to get Libby’s attention. He told the teacher that The Red Badge of Courage had changed his life. That Edgar Allan Poe was his hero. He memorized the “Et tu, Brute?” speech for extra credit.